


Name Tag

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffeeshop AU, F/M, a lot of awkward flirting, it got so long i don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:57:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4163043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I work as a barista and you come in every morning yelling into your phone and so i misspell your name in increasingly horrific ways au"</p><p>OR</p><p>All Clarke wants is some decent coffee for her horrible boss, Bellamy is pretty sick of rude customers, and vocabularistic shenanigans ensue. (There is also a lot of awkward flirting and one personalized painting involved.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name Tag

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna tell you right now; I'm not proud of the quality of this. I'm still testing out my writing skills, so please give a little grace. I worked on this one for a while, and had some difficulty with it. Constructive feedback is more than appreciated.

There were days Bellamy loved working in the Dropship Café. The sun would stream in through the plate glass windows and gleam off the cherry-wood floors and leather couches, illuminating the dust motes floating through the air. The shop would be filled with the low, quiet hum of conversation, the line would be short, the customers friendly, and he and Monty would be tossing bottles of syrup and packets of sweetener in elaborate shows of skill for tips.

  


Those mornings were heavenly.

  


This was not one of those mornings.

  


Rain pelted the street and blew in every time the door opened with a tinkle, a breeze fluttering the rack of newspapers. A puddle stood on the rug, the umbrella stand was full, and the line wrapped all the way from the counter to the back of the shop. Harper cursed loudly from the back, and a moment later, Miller and Monty were booted through the swinging double doors, The former cramming his hat down over his ears, the latter shaking water from his hair.

  


“You’re _late_ ,” Bellamy hissed as Monty dashed toward the second register and Miller washed his hands as quickly as possible. One of the customers complained loudly at the stall in service as the three men changed positions and settled into their normal routines. Bellamy resisted the urge to flip them the bird.

  


“Subway tunnel was flooded,” Miller shouted five minutes later over the grinder. “We had to change trains three times, I’m sorry!”

  


Bellamy shrugged. “Call next time!” was all he said before he turned his attention to the young mother juggling twin toddlers. The next hour passed in a flurry of activity, shouted orders, near-misses with the kettle full of hot water and one stubbed toe. (Monty apologized, but this was the fourth time this week and Bellamy was sick of it.)

  


Bellamy’s shoulders and feet ached, his customer-smile was slipping, and he couldn’t care less about who ordered what, as long as it got made. So when the next customer in line stepped up, Bellamy cursed her with every single ounce of vitriol left in his overtired, undercaffeinated, horrifically sore body.

  


She was on the phone. If there was one thing Bellamy hated, it was customers on the phone. “Good morning," he said, "what can I get --”

  


“Two  medium double-shot mochas, one with whip, one without,” the woman snapped, barely looking up at him from the phone in her hands. And then (quite loudly) into her bluetooth, “No, sir, I’m ordering the coffee,” and then again to Bellamy, “for Clarke. C-L-A-R-K-E.”

  


If looks could kill, the small blond woman would be dead a thousand times over. After a pause, he reluctantly punched her order into the machine.“That’ll be -- ” he started, but she was already thrusting her gold card in his face. He swiped it with as much passive-aggression as he could muster. The woman stepped away to wait for her drinks, eyes still glued to the Android in her hands, and he marked the orders on the cups, writing “clerk” on both before handing them off to Miller.  

  
  
  


____________________

  
  


Clarke was wet, harried, and pissed. First, the subway flooded and she’d been stuck walking to work in stilettos, then she’d forgotten to stop at Starbucks for Cage’s coffee and had to duck into the little mom-and-pop café across from her office, Cage had called her while she was in line, grim, dead serious, and enraged at Clarke for being late, and then the barista _spelled her name wrong on purpose_ , cocky piece of shit.

  


Normally things like this didn’t faze her. Growing up with an unusual name had meant things like this happened all the time. But, on top of an already shitty morning, it nearly brought her to tears. She’d practically thrown the mocha at her supervisor before flopping down in her own desk chair and setting her cup down on the stack of legal papers in her inbox. It was then she’d noticed the word in scrawled marker along the top. “clerk.” She gave an irritated sigh, cussed out the barista in her mind, and got to work.

  


Fifteen minutes later, Cage had popped his head in Clarke’s office. “Clarke,” he’d said, his voice completely level, “Where did you get my coffee this morning?”

  


Clarke’s throat leapt up into her chest. Cage, put quite simply, was the boss from hell, and anything not done to his specifications, even coffee, could merit a fit of rage. “The café across the street,” she answered, attempting to keep her voice level. “Your normal place was closed. Under renovation.” _Lie. Lielielie_.

  


Cage leaned against the doorframe and put his manicured hands in his pockets. “It was better than usual. Get it from there from now on, okay?”

  


Clarke’s sigh of relief was followed quickly by the realization she was going to have to go back and deal with the asshole barista every morning for God knows how long. She only nodded at her boss, and, once he was out of earshot, dropped her head on her arms and let out a long, drawn-out groan.

  


_________________

  


The next morning was similar in its chaos. Bellamy, Miller, and Monty all danced around each other in the small space behind the corner, scrambling to get orders in on a somewhat timely basis and occasionally sticking their heads in the kitchen to yell at Harper to get more of her scones out here, they’re selling fast. Bellamy’s stomach dropped as the short blond woman from the previous day stepped up to the register once more, gesticulating wildly and cursing into her bluetooth. Once more, she failed to make even a second of friendly eye contact and exhibited the worst display of patience Bellamy had ever seen.

  


“For Clarke,” she’d said twice, both before and after she’d ordered, and spelled it again. Being the obstinate and belligerent man he was, he’d written “clergy” on both cups in the worst handwriting he could manage before adding them to the line of cups on the counter. This time, the woman checked the cups before leaving the store, and she practically bored a hole through his forehead with her sharp, beautiful blue eyes.

  


(Not that he noticed, or anything. They were striking, that’s all.)

  


Much to both parties’ chagrin, Clarke returned each morning during the rush hour, normally on her phone. (Bellamy assumed it was on purpose, but Cage really just had terrible timing and refused to admit that, now he had ordered his chief assistant to get coffee from an incredibly popular shop near several corporate offices, she was going to be a little late.) She’d order the same thing with the normal amount of snappishness and the same annoyed, sharp tone, and he’d write her name in increasingly horrific ways.

  


(His favorites included “cliff bar,” “clavicle,” “clarinet,” “the clash,” and “clepsydra,” the last of which earned him a strange look that mixed glare and bewilderment.) Eventually, Bellamy mentioned this little game to his coworkers, as he was running out of words, and it got to the point where, whenever she walked in and joined the line, both Miller and Monty would make a point to tell Bellamy that day’s suggestions. (He nearly lost it one Monday morning when all three boys were in a foul mood, and Miller had leaned over and muttered “chlamydia” next to his ear. Bellamy, fortunately, was feeling merciful, and went with “clogger” instead.) There were some days when he felt just the slightest bit guilty, noting the bags under Clarke’s eyes and the defeated slump to her shoulders. But almost always, like friggin clockwork, she was on the phone by the time she reached the register.

  


At that point, he was normally too pissed to care.

  


This routine went on for months. Eventually, Clarke stopped caring. It was obvious he was only trying to rile her up, most likely due to her daily cellular shouting matches with Cage while she ordered, and at some point, it became simply entertaining. She’d check the cups when she picked them up each day, pretend to glare at him on her way out, and then chuckle about it on her way into the office. (Because, really? Clepsydra? What kind of person pulls the name of a historical water clock off the top of their head and uses it as an insult?) Unfortunately, however, her boss eventually caught on.

  


“Clarke?”

  


She sighed and rolled her eyes, slumping back in her chair. Her boss’ voice was low, grating, and got on her nerves, especially when he called her like she was a dog. Honestly, she didn’t know why she was still in this job. Working as an executive assistant to the richest, douchiest CEO in the country wasn’t at the top of her list when she’d graduated from Virginia State with a double degree in Art and Economics. (She hadn’t picked the Economics major, either, but Abby Griffin wasn’t about to let her daughter graduate with only a four-year degree in fine arts.)

  


Lexa had gotten her this job. At first, Clarke had been grateful; she was sick of being a starving artist, and the position paid very well. But then they’d dated, and broken up, and Cage Wallace, slime pile that he was, started showing his true colors. Now Clarke was stuck in a dead-end job with a piece-of-shit boss just like every other corporate slave in America.

  


“Cla-arke!”

  


Reluctantly, she peeled herself out of her chair and walked down the short hallway to his office, stilettos thumping quietly against the carpet. She pulled open the mahogany door with some difficulty and stepped inside, notepad at the ready. Cage was sprawled in his chair, the very picture of the entitled businessman with the skyline at his back.  

  


“Why does my coffee cup say ‘clodpole’ on it?” He stared at the empty paper cup like it had done something to personally offend him, and Clarke resisted the urge to laugh. He looked up at the choked noise and narrowed his beady eyes. “Something funny, Ms. Griffin?”

  


She pressed her lips together and shook her head, mischief sparkling in her eyes. “No, sir. Not at all.”

  


“Ms. Griffin, where did you say you get these drinks every morning?” he asked, glaring up at her.

  


“Dropship Café, sir. Just across the street,” she answered. He should have known, he was the one who sent her there every damn day.

  


“Do you write these things on the cups every morning?”

  


Clarke thought back through the past few days, how much weirder the coffee cups had gotten. “Clodpole” was the least of it. Yesterday it had been “cladophyllum,” and Monday’s was “clayface.” She had to hold back laughter at the offended, confused look on her boss’ face. “No sir,” she said, “It’s the barista. He uses different words instead of my name; he thinks it’s funny.”

  


Cage’s confused expression turned into a frown. “It’s unprofessional. You’ll tell him to stop.” Unwilling to explain the fact that not everyone was a Fortune 500 CEO that could boss everyone else around, she only nodded and turned to go. “And Clarke?” She hoped he didn’t notice the tightening of her shoulders at the sound of his voice. “Get me something different tomorrow. I’m sick of mochas.”

  


Something ugly reared its head in Clarke’s chest, and she turned around slowly, something akin to rage humming through her veins. She was sick of this assface, of this office, of this job. Sick of the days that were meant to be 9-5s and ended up as 7-9s, sick of Emerson the security guard and his lecherous stare. Sick of Cage Wallace and his entitled, filthy rich, lazy ass. “With all due respect, Mr. Wallace,” she said, her voice sickly-sweet, politician’s daughter smile on her face, “I will not. I’m an executive assistant. I schedule your meetings, your travel, your entire life.” Cage’s face twisted into something full of anger, and the beast in Clarke’s chest smiled in satisfaction. “Without me, Mr. Wallace, your entire life would fall apart. You can find an intern to get your coffee.” A pregnant silence filled the room as the two faced off, Clarke quiet and composed in her suit and smile, Cage practically vibrating with rage.

  


“Ms. Griffin,” he said, his grating voice shaking with anger, “you are my assistant. You will do what I tell you.”

  


Feeling unusually bold, Clarke spoke in return. “I will do what is in my job description, Mr. Wallace. If you want me to cater to your every whim for the next five years, I’m going to need a raise.”

  


Cage’s face turned an ugly shade of purple and he stood abruptly, sending the offending cup rolling to the floor. “Never in my life have I been treated with such disrespect!” He practically shouted, and Clarke very nearly laughed in his face.

  


She considered her next words carefully, ultimately making the decision that she didn’t need or want this job anymore, anyway. “You are not respected, Mr. Wallace. You’re only feared.” He gaped like a fish out of water. “And really, sir, I’m done being afraid of you.”

  


Cage’s hands curled into fists and his voice was deadly and quiet when he finally spoke. “What are you saying, Ms. Griffin?”

  


Clarke took one last look around the gleaming office, the epitome of American success, and smiled slightly to herself, thinking of one place she’d be much more content to spend her days. Looking back to her boss, she grinned widely, unclipping her ID badge from the bottom of her jacket and tossing it onto his desk. “I’m saying I quit, Mr. Wallace.” With that, she turned and left the office, feeling like an enormous weight had just been lifted off her shoulders.

  
  


_________

Despite himself, Bellamy had started to look forward to Clarke’s arrival every morning. His head snapped up every time the bell rang, even during the morning rush, and he searched the incoming crowd for her signature blond, curly updo. He couldn’t quite explain it, only that whenever she walked through the door, ridiculous skirt suit and all, his heart picked up a few beats. At first, he attributed it to anger and dread, but, as the months went on, he recognized it as something else.

  


He was -- attracted to her? It wasn’t that weird, right? She was pretty hot in that corporate-bad-bitch sort of way. But, that aside, he didn’t think falling for the monstrous customer that made his life hell every morning was necessarily normal. There was something about her, the way she spoke, the way she moved -- he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but there was some air about her that drew him in.

  


One Friday morning, a few months after she first walked into his store, she was late by almost an hour. Bellamy kept his eye on the door throughout the entire morning rush, feeling a lump of something akin to apprehension growing in his chest.  He messed up three orders and mistotaled twice -- rookie mistakes. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Monty knocked into him, and, finally, his friends picked up on it.

  


“Dude,” Miller said, as the last of the rush trickled out and they began wiping down the counters. “You’re jumpy. What gives?”

  


Bellamy only shrugged, reluctant to say that it was Clarke affecting him like this. She was his least favorite customer, rude, inconsiderate, loud. (Also beautiful, but he wasn’t about to admit that.) Logically, he should hate her. But there was something about her that stuck in his head. Just then, the bell above the door went off, and he practically split his head open on the bar trying to see who’d come in. It was Clarke, looking incredibly different. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and she was wearing jeans and a navy blue zip-up hoodie instead of her normal, business-casual attire. Monty and Miller shared an understanding look that Bellamy pretended not to see.

  


She walked slowly up to the counter, bluetooth missing from her ear, sliding her phone into her pocket. She was the only one in line, and she leaned her hands on the counter and considered the menu board, something she’d never done.

  


Bellamy stepped up to the register cautiously, an odd mixture of hope and wariness on his face. "Good morning," he said tentatively, propping his hands on the register.

  


"Hi," Clarke replied. She smiled at him for the first time, soft and slow. The sight set Bellamy’s heart tripping over itself, much to his surprise.

  


He cleared his throat. “two medium double-shot mochas?” he asked, attempting to sound as annoyed as possible. “For C-l-a-r-k-e?”

  


 

Clarke’s smile faltered. “No, not today.” Bellamy’s eyebrows quirked up. “Those were for my boss… I -- “ She paused and blinked a few times, her smile growing slightly. “I quit my job.” She sounded elated, and just a little bit disbelieving, like she couldn’t believe she’d done it.

  


He crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels. “Your boss?” he asked,doing his best to look pissed. He’d had his own share of hellish bosses, but, in his opinion, that was no excuse to lose human decency and snap at baristas.

  


“Cage Wallace,” she explained, “Richest, douchiest man in America.”  

  


That knocked the defensive expression off Bellamy’s face. Wallace was the biggest name in defense in the whole country, arguably the world. He was somewhat of a legend. Bellamy knew that Wallace worked in one of the buildings near his shop, but he hadn’t imagined anyone that rich would want coffee from a dumpy, mom-and-pop place famous for their orange scones. “You work for Cage Wallace?”

  


“Worked,” Clarke emphasized. “Past tense. As of yesterday, I am no longer an employee of Mount Weather enterprises.” the relief in her voice was nearly comical.

  


“Because your boss is a dick?”

  


“Because my boss _was_ a dick.”

  


Forgetting the surly act, he smiled. She was apologizing. She couldn’t be so bad, right? They held eye contact for a moment before Bellamy remembered himself. He pulled his brows together and forced a frown on to his face, not missing the way her face fell. “And you’re here, because?”

  


“I came to apologize,” she said, looking down at her hands. “for everything. And also say thank you.”

  


Bellamy was struck silent for a moment. “Thank you?”

  


Clarke laughed quietly to herself. “The cups. I know you meant it as an insult but -- “ she chuckled again and looked up. Her eyes, blue, with an endless depth, did something strange to Bellamy’s stomach. “they made Wallace a little more bearable, some days.”

  


He smiled in return. Clarke’s heart did a kickflip in her chest. “And here I was,” he answered, leaning forward on the counter (She wasn’t staring at the way his biceps rippled no, no, _no_ ), “Thinking you hated me.” He started doing it to piss her off, payback for the phone calls and the snapping, even though it eventually became more fun than anything, a game, to ease the stress of the morning rush. As much as he hated to admit it, he enjoyed the morning routine, the dynamic they’d had.

  


“It’s hard to hate a guy who uses the word ‘clepsydra’ on a coffee cup.” She neglected to mention she’d actually kept that one, along with a few others, and now they were lined up on the windowsill above her desk at home.

  


Bellamy’s grin slid from his face. (She missed it immediately.) He stared at her for a moment before raising one eyebrow. “You know what that means?” It wasn’t usual for people, especially hot business women, to share his weird, ancient civilization knowledge. Not many people graduated with a history major and went into economics.

  


Clarke scoffed sarcastically and rolled her eyes, no longer fighting the smile that grew across her face. “Who doesn’t? Ancient greek water clocks are totally back in style.”

  


Call Bellamy a geek, but that was the moment his heart flew out of his chest. He may not have known it then, but he didn’t stand a chance against a beautiful girl who understood all his obscure historical references, no matter how snappish she was about coffee. Left speechless, he laughed, the sound sending odd tingles down Clarke’s spine. “You got me,” he declared, stepping back from the register and raising both hands in surrender. “I’m a history nerd.”

  


“I dunno,” she responded, feeling bold. “I believe the correct term is history _buff_.” She glanced at his arms pointedly.

  


Bellamy’s tanned face darkened the barest shade, and he rubbed the back of his neck, smiling still. They grinned at each other like idiots for a long moment, Clarke’s thoughts on a racetrack. She’d quit her job, she had no idea how she was going to make next month’s rent, yet here she was, flirting with an intimidatingly hot barista. Was she proud of her choices? Not really. Did she care, with the way Bellamy was smiling at her like that, his brown eyes practically melting her soul? Nah.

  


The moment was only broken by a very confused Miller, pushing between Bellamy and the register and clearing his throat. “Hate to break this up,” he said, “But we have a line, ma’am, and I really need to take your order.” Bellamy cleared his throat, coughed a few times, and opened up the second cashier. Clarke went an adorable shade of red, murmured her order, and practically fled to the corner table, still smiling like a maniac.

  


(Bellamy caught shit about it for days. Miller also wrote Bellamy’s number on Clarke’s cup, so Bellamy didn’t really think Miller meant it.)

  


________________________

  


Clarke still came in everyday. She’d sit for hours and sketch, whether on a pad or her digital tablet. Her order stayed the same, and Bellamy continued to write ridiculous things on her coffee cup, but they were cuter this time. Endearing, rather than insulting. Clarke refused to admit he was flirting. Instead, she immersed herself in her art. Working at the office had given her a sizable cushion, money-wise, and she’d given herself three months to become at least semi-successful before she started panicking. Already, she tending bar a few blocks away from her apartment, just to keep herself fed, but the days were hers to draw and paint and let her creativity flow.

  


The Dropship was her favorite place to draw. Interesting people seemed to flock through it’s doors, plant themselves in the worn-out, brown leather armchairs, and flower in the coffee-stained environment. Her favorite subject, however, was the man behind the counter. Bellamy behind the counter was Bellamy at home. He laughed and joked, trading light-hearted insults with his coworkers, seeming to practically glide between the register and the kitchen. Clarke couldn’t get enough.

  


Studies of his hands filled a page of her sketchbook, his shoulders another, his eyes, laughing, frowning, flirting, covered three. In her apartment, a canvas stood half-done in her living room, the dropcloth spattered with dark browns and deep golds. It showed the view from Clarke’s table,  with the registers and the pastry case, the colorful chalkboard menu, and Bellamy’s figure behind the bar, his profile glowing in late-afternoon sunlight.

  


She’d come in one day to sketch out the details behind the bar, curled up in the leather armchair by the window, but kept getting distracted by Bellamy bustling about behind the counter, his muscles frustratingly obvious beneath his baseball t-shirt. She was trying to capture the gleam and shadow of the chrome machines, the way the light played off the red tile counter, but everytime Bellamy smiled at one of his customers, her heart dropped to her toes and she found herself sketching him, over and over again.

  


Eventually, he noticed. “Hey,” he called, leaning his elbows on the counter. She looked up, finding him smirking at her in the most frustrating, sexy way. “Whatcha working on?” It’d become a tradition of sorts, whenever it was slow, for Bellamy to wander over, plop himself down in the chair beside her, and talk. It didn’t matter what about, only that he kept himself busy and she had someone to listen to while she sketched.

  


Fighting a blush, her knuckles went white around her pencil. He’d seen her other stuff, still-lifes of discarded cups and empty wrappers, rushed doodles of the people walking by, even a few surrealist takes on the decor of the shop itself, when she was really bored, but nothing like this. She didn’t want him knowing just how much he affected her art. “None of your business,” she managed. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be working?”

  


He glanced around the shop, sarcasm sparkling in his dark brown eyes. Belatedly, Clarke realized it was empty, except for Miller and Monty playing some sort of poker with sugar packets near the kitchen. “I’d say I’ve got time.” His smile really was sinful. She smiled in return and held his gaze, sweeping her eyes over the line of his jaw and the smattering of freckles across his impossible cheekbones. He was beautiful, in a way she’d never seen before. After a moment, he nodded to the sketchbook in her hands. “So,” he asked, “Can I see?”

  
  


Clarke looked down at the drawing in her hands, which had just turned out to be a rough sketch of the counter with five Bellamys behind it, each in a different pose of action. “Uh --” but it was too late. He slipped out from behind the bar and strode over to where she sat by the window.

  


“So what is it?” he asked, standing over her and wiping his hands on a towel. She looked between her drawing and him, at a loss for what to say. Bellamy grinned, in the way he did whenever he teased her. If pissed Clarke was hot, Embarassed Clarke was simply adorable. Over the past couple weeks, as she frequented the place, Bellamy found himself enamored. She’d sit in the corner and draw, blond waves lit on fire by the sunlight. Her power this time was quiet, but noticeable nonetheless. Whenever she was there, Bellamy couldn’t focus. There was always the constant knowledge that she was _right there_ , with her cornflower-blue eyes and dazzling smile, drawing or writing or just staring out the window, thoughtful expression on her face. Whenever they spoke, trading teasing jabs and half-hearted insults, he couldn’t keep the smile away. Clarke was addicting.

  


“It’s nothing,” Clarke said, pulling the book closer to her chest. What she had with Bellamy was tenuous flirtation at best, barely even a friendship, and she didn’t want to lose that because of some distracted doodle.

  


“Come on, Cleopatra,” He said, referencing what he’d written on her cup that morning. “Can’t be that bad.”

  


“It’s not that it’s bad --” she started, “It’s just --” He grinned at her, and her resolve all but disintegrated. “It’s embarrassing,” she finished quietly, letting the book slip out of her hands.

  


Bellamy threw the towel over his shoulder and picked it from her lap gently, smoothing his thumbs over the curling corner of the paper. Clarke held her breath while he examined the drawing, afraid he’d find some fault with it, or tell her how creepy it was that she watched and drew him while he remained oblivious. Instead, he only said, “That’s amazing,” and gazed at the paper, his lips barely turned up at the corners. “You’re very talented.” Slowly, he handed back the sketchbook. (Something odd was happening to his insides he didn’t want to discuss. Suddenly, all he could think about was Clarke’s smile.)

  


“Thanks,” Clarke responded, the smile on her face sending tingles down Bellamy’s spine. Relieved, she could barely control the words that tumbled out of her mouth. “That’s not even the whole thing. I was sketching out the idea, the painting is a lot cooler. Although there’s only one of you --”

  


Bellamy raised his eyebrows, interrupting her. “Painting?” A vague expression of horror settled over Clarke’s features as she realized what she’d said. “You’ve been painting me?”

  


She spluttered for a moment before answering. “Not you, specifically. Just the café. You, uh, happen to be in it.”

  


He nodded to the sketch. “Testing ideas?”

  


She looked down at her drawing, heart in her throat. “You could say that.”

  


Bellamy slipped his hands in his pockets as he watched her. “You should let me see it sometime.”

  


Clarke looked up at him, surprised, blue eyes sparkling. He couldn’t breathe for an embarrassing moment. “Are you asking me out?” she asked, a small grin turning up the corners of her mouth.

  


“So what if I am?” He grinned like an embarrassed schoolboy, doing his best to ignore the butterflies zooming through his stomach. Dating wasn’t Bellamy’s usual modus operandi -- he was too busy with the shop, with Octavia, to really have a girlfriend, but Clarke -- he couldn’t find words for the feeling in his chest when she smiled, or the anticipation of seeing her everyday. He wasn’t in love, not yet, but he stood on the edge of it, barely an inch away from oblivion.

  


“Then,” Clarke replied, the dazzling smile on her face sending Bellamy’s heart tripping over itself, “I’d have to say yes.”

  
  


________

  


7:30 friday evening found Clarke dashing around her apartment in a gauzy blue blouse and black boyshorts, hair half-braided, holding one shoe and looking more than a little frazzled. “RAVEN?!?” She yelled, the sound echoing through their brick-and-hardwood loft.

  


“Clarke, I am right here,” her roommate replied from their beat-up leather couch.

  


Clarke thrust her black flat in the other girl’s face. “Where. Is. The. Other. One.”

  


Raven barely reacted, only flicking her eyes up from her magazine. “Did you check the rack?”

  


“Why would it be in the rack?”

  


“Because that’s where shoes go.”

  


“You need to stop putting my things where they go. It’s very distracting.” Clarke whapped Raven on the shoulder with the shoe and went to the rack by the door.

  


“I’ll get right on that,” Raven muttered, flipping a page. “And, Clarke?” she called, without looking up.

  


“Yeah?”

  


“Pants?”

  


Clarke looked down at herself, sighed, and turned back to go to her room. “Thanks.”

  


She was significantly more put together half an hour later, when she opened the door to see Bellamy leaning against the frame, unbearably sexy in black jeans and a leather jacket. “So where’s this painting I keep hearing so much about?” he asked.

  


It took Clarke a moment to answer -- she was too busy staring at his collarbones. “It’s uh --” she shook her head to clear it. “It’s in here.” Stepping aside, she led him through the doorway into the open space of her living room. The canvas, three feet wide and two feet tall, stood on an easel near the windows. Bellamy glanced between it and Clarke, who stood shyly behind him, feet turned in towards each other, hands clasped behind her back. (She was glad that Raven had a short-notice “call from work” from Wick, because Clarke knew her roommate would never let her live down being this fluttery over a _guy_.)

  


“Clarke, this is…” he smiled disbelievingly. “This is amazing.” The painting showed the Dropship in all its warm and golden glory. There were the worn leather chairs in the corner window, there the chrome espresso machines next to the ancient green grinder, there the pastry case, filled with Harper’s orange scones. And there, behind the counter, was him. The human figure in the painting was the only thing entirely fleshed out, painted with layers of color, light, and shadow. Bellamy crossed to the easel and leaned to examine his likeness.

  


“You think so?” her voice was timid, but came from directly over his shoulder; she stood close enough for him to feel the warmth of her on his back.

  


He turned, catching her off guard intentionally. She stumbled into him, cursing under her breath, and his hands found her waist as he kept her upright. “Yeah,” he chuckled, watching her face pink, her eyes widen, “It’s pretty fantastic.”

  


She swallowed nervously, bewildered by her suddenly dry mouth. “Thanks,” she managed, embarrassed by the breathiness of her voice. “I... uh -- It’s not finished.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him, her gaze tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, finally landing in the dark pools of his eyes. She shouldn’t be doing this. She had so much to figure out: her career, her living space, her future. She didn’t need a relationship right now -- especially not with someone as devastatingly gorgeous and horrifically frustrating as Bellamy -- but all that was hard to remember when his hands spanned the small of her back and he was gazing down at her with those adorable freckles and that wonderfully sexy smirk.

  


She almost stepped away, removed herself from his gentle grasp and show him to the door, almost broke her own daze, told herself that he wasn’t what she wanted -- wasn’t a good idea -- but then he leaned down and his mouth was a breath away from hers and she wasn’t so sure.

  
  


Kissing Clarke lit Bellamy on fire. Every single nerve felt like a live wire, thrumming and sparking as she laced her fingers behind his neck, pulled him in closer. He kissed her with everything he had, wrapping his arms tightly around her waist, burying his hands in her hair. Bellamy never expected for her to feel like this, soft and strong and so right in his arms. For so long, she’d driven him crazy, first as a ridiculous customer, then as a distraction he couldn’t shake, stuck in the back of his mind, an improbable possibility.

  


Finally, Clarke pulled away, looking shell-shocked. Bellamy grinned, bumped his nose against her cheekbone, leaned in for another short kiss. She laughed as they pressed their foreheads together,  the sound ringing through the empty space, high and clear. “If I knew that was all it took…”

  


He filled in the missing words. “You would have done it a long time ago?”

  


“Something like that, yeah,” she agreed. they were quiet for a while, drifting in the moment. Clarke leaned back in his grasp, let her hands slide up to cup his face between her palms. She smiled wryly.

  


“What?” he teased, his breath ghosting over the thin skin of her wrists.

  


“Nothing.” She brushed her fingertips over his brow, her thumbs over his lips. “It’s just -- “ she tilted her head. Her brow furrowed adorably. “If someone told me three months ago that I’d be making out with the asshole barista that purposefully spelled my name wrong every morning, well…”

  


“Oh come on,” he protested, “I wasn’t that bad.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he was thinking back to all the glares and passive-aggressive insults he hurled back at her every morning and inwardly cringed.

  


Clarke raised an eyebrow at him. “You called me a clodpole.”

  


Bellamy grinned. The expression was too adorable not to. “Yeah, alright. I was pretty bad.” He kissed her again, reluctant to let go. “But so were you.”

  


Clarke remembered the yelling and the angry gesticulations and snappish tone, feeling the need to say sorry, but then recalled their conversation only a few weeks earlier. She smiled at him, relishing the brief, starstruck look in his eyes. “At least I apologized.”

  


He laughed, remembering her nervous smile and adorable hoodie, and the sound felt like music to Clarke’s ears. “You want an apology?” he asked.  

  


“Yeah,” she said, dancing out of his grip. She swayed across the floor, picked up her jacket from the couch, and put her back against the door. “You can start with dinner.”

  


Bellamy crossed the room and leaned over her, capturing her lips one more time. He didn’t ever want to stop kissing her. “Dinner,” he said, when they separated, “Dinner, I can do.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> (*hides face in hands* what have I created)  
> As per usual: thanks for staying, comments and kudos appreciated beyond measure :)  
> unusually: I really don't like the ending for this one -- i feel it's pretty abrupt -- so let me know if you guys want a part two :)


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